


Let Sleep the Dogs of War

by MalcolmInSpace



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 17:29:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11696463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalcolmInSpace/pseuds/MalcolmInSpace
Summary: Wrex has a gift for Shepard.





	Let Sleep the Dogs of War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haraya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haraya/gifts).



“Shepard!” Wrex’s greeting shout is as enthusiastic as it was that first time on Tuchanka, and the hug matches. This time, of course, Shepard isn’t wearing armour. The hug leaves bruises.

Bilateral talks between heads of state in wartime don’t generally begin with warrior embraces, but apparently this one does. Shepard, her ribs feeling a trifle tender, leads the assembled leaders through the refurbished Normandy to the war room.

The meetings are as grindingly painful as ever. Magnanimous as the curing of the genophage has made Wrex, he is still relentless in his need for oversight of the krogan deployments happening on Palavan and elsewhere. The salarian delegation seem to act as much from spite as anything else, and Victus’s obvious impatience at being away from Menae doesn’t help. Shepard leaves every session as weary as any open gun fight.

The session breaks up, with progress made Shepard must admit. As cantankerous as they both can be, Wrex and Victus have unwavering focus and they are both dedicated to the same goal.  Victus and his retinue leave for their ship, and the salarians to there’s.

Wrex hangs back. “I have a gift for you, Shepard. Come on, I’ll have them bring it to the docking port now.”

They walk back through the Normandy, Wrex telling Shepard of the changes on Tuchanka, of the progress in driving back the Reapers, of the pregnancies already in bloom. The change from the dour, nihilistic mercenary Shepard met those years ago on the Citadel is so marked Shepard can’t help but feel a smile.

Wrex pauses at the airlock door and fumbles through his belt pouched for a moment before withdrawing a slightly squishy square of something resembling a scone. “Here, you’ll want this,” Wrex says, pressing it into her hand. “No, don’t eat it, it’s not for you.”

The airlock door opens with a whoosh and a slight gust of overpressure, and two krogan step through flanking a varren. Shepard tenses by instinct, remembering the sight of hungry varren charging for her throat.

Wrex laughs out loud. “I bet Eve twenty credits you’d go for a gun.” He makes a clicking noise and the fishdog walks over, slowly but not warily. Just… slow. “I don’t know if you remember him, but this is Urz. The two of you seemed to get along the first time you met. His owner died in the fighting, so, uh, here. He’s too old for the pits, and eating him feels unfair.”

Shepard leans down as the varren approaches, his large eyes fixed on her. Or rather, she realizes, fixed on the snack in her hand. She extends it to him, palm open. She braces for it, but the varren just gently takes it from her hand, then chews twice and swallows. Shepard extends a hand and rubs the animal at the base of the skull. The scaly skin is warm and dry, and the large head leans into her.

“Heh heh heh,” Wrex chuckles. “He does like you. Well, I have to head back to Tuchanka to beat some more clans into order. Let me know the next time you need help killing a Reaper.” And with that he’s gone, leaving a speechless Shepard alone with an alien fishdog.

“Well,” she says, “you’re not the weirdest recruit I’ve ever picked up. Come on, let’s get you fed.” Urz trots along at her heel, unreadable eyes surveying the ship.

 

Urz, of course, is an immediate hit with the rest of the crew. Any concerns about what he can digest are answered swiftly as he’s fed tidbits of anything and everything in reach.  The varren is wary of others, but content to follow Shepard’s lead.

Eventually, Shepard returns to her quarters, the efforts of the day, and of the war, bearing down. She drags a few extra blankets out of the closet and lays out a nest for Urz. The varren stands there, staring quizzically. She tries a few times to get him to lie down, but he just stares back.

Shepard sighs, shrugs, crawls into bed, and silently hopes that perhaps tonight she will sleep without visions of looming god-machines, burning cities, or the ones she couldn’t save. In the dark, it is quiet. And then a weight settles against her back, the warmth of the varren felt even through the blanket. Urz’s breathing slows, deepens, lulls Shepard down into sleep.

The Normandy carries Shepard through the stars, ever on to the next horizon of war. But tonight, sleep is a deep and dreamless well, a sliver of rest for two weary, scarred souls.


End file.
